Lads and Ladettes
Watch them spilling out of pubs,
pissing on lamp posts, spewing grub.
In short-sleeve shirts
and belts for skirts,
swaggering or teetering on broken bottles,
belching and bitching, screeching full-throttle.
Fuck this, fuck that, fuck me
Fucking grab that fucking taxi!
A skirmish as two mullets collide,
missiles being lobbed by the birds at the side.
One of them has ogled the other one’s woman.
The lads parry fists to the battle cry c’mon then!
A siren approaches, the polis dismount.
It wisnae fucking me, ya fascist wee cunt!
And then a blade snatched out in fury;
in two months time, a stone-faced jury.
The slopping out still makes him retch.
Head down mate. You’ve a bloody long stretch!
Meanwhile walking home on a Saturday night,
I suddenly realise I’m getting old
as I wince to my partner
“that girl will catch her death of cold!”
New Town Chavs
Their status screams
from thick-grooved cords –
mustard, claret, or salmon pink,
always an inch too short,
with a turn-up perching on
incongruously pristine brogues.
The torso is clad in faint check
olive wool blend,
perhaps with a quilted grillet
under the jacket – purchased from
the hunting, shooting, fishing shop
(where else would one find them?)
A tweed flat cap completes
Tally ho chaps!
Anyone for a spot of grouse?
The New Town chav is a creature
native to the finer tastes in life.
But Burberry’s been hijacked
so they might as well resort
to shooting smack!